#1255

In my dreams the ghosts of murdered women weep, as anonymous in death as they were in life, and they beg for vengeance using lips still dusted with hemlock and nightshade, wet with vomit and blood. But they are dark skinned things wearing borrowed clothes, eyes downcast and fingers calloused from long days of labor, and no one bothers to search for a killer who strikes only the dregs of society.

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